by C. L. Sidell
We summoned the thing without knowing what we’d done.
A simple campfire—roasting marshmallows for nostalgia’s sake.
“Grab the sticks,” you said.
They burned, smoked green.
The earth rumbled, shook without moving.
The thing rose behind you—a menacing, monolithic shadow amongst forest shadows. Its innumerable yellow eyes fixed on me, its rusted voice impregnated my thoughts with inarticulate words. Root-like appendages rose into the air as if in depraved prayer, and my own hands mimicked its movements.
Know I had no choice, its putrid need filling my throat as I thrust the hunting knife into your heart.
C. L. Sidell
A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in horror stories. She holds a Master of Arts in both English and library & information science, moderates two creative writing groups, and reviews books for the Florida Library Youth Program. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in 34 Orchard, 805 Lit, Dark Moments, The Dread Machine, Frozen Wavelets, opia, Quarantine Quanta, Spark: A Creative Anthology, and others.
Twitter & Facebook: @sidellwrites